


A Deadly Affair

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean makes Cas help, Demon Blood Addiction, Drinking, Gen, Ghosts, Hunting, Impala, Minor Character Death, Sam needs to fess up, Slight Dean/Cas - Freeform, Supernatural - Freeform, Vengeful Spirits, affair, angel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are in Blanket Town, Kentucky for another hunt, this one involving a nasty love affair that only leads to death and tracking down an unwanted spirit. Sam is hiding something from Dean, and Dean can tell. But is the older brother holding back some secrets as well? Maybe from his time in the fiery pits below should stay secret after all... -Basic Winchester Hunting-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yet Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of these characters, but the plot is mine so I just stuck them in there for kicks.

“I pulled you out of hell.

 _I can throw you back in_.”

                         

Dean woke with a start, sweat beading his forehead and panting like a dog. He rubbed a hand across his face and let out a sharp breath. These nightmares were starting to really get on Dean’s last nerve. First it was flashbacks of the burning visions in hell, and now it was those same words over and over. Each time Castiel was standing beside Dean with that same expressionless look and dead eyes, repeating those words with a monotone. They became etched in Dean’s mind and sooner or later it was a mantra that Dean said before he went to bed every night. This is probably what prompted the nightmares.

A rustling came from the motel room’s bathroom. _Sam must be in the shower_ , Dean thought. He rolled out of bed and ran his fingers through his short, cropped hair. _Sam better be done with that shower soon, because I sure need one._ After a quick knock on the bathroom door and a muffled shout, it was clear that Sam would be a while. Dean rolled his eyes and muttered a few profanities at his younger brother. Nights like the last always made Dean a little grouchy in the mornings. He was almost a little sorry that Sam had to deal with him in this sort of mood.

“Sammy, let’s get moving!” Dean shouted through the cracks of the door again.

“Alright, Dean, give me one goddamned minute!” Sam responded.

Dean rolled his eyes and threw a towel over his shoulder as Sam emerged from the misty bathroom with a toothbrush scrubbing his teeth. Sam raised his eyebrows and gestured Dean towards the foggy room behind him. Dean pushed by Sam, clashing shoulders, and stumbled into the bath. A stubbed toe and his touchy behavior nearly had Dean at Sam’s throat, but he remembered that it would only lead to a stupid testosterone-based yelling fit that would exhaust them both.

There was no time for that today, and both Sam and Dean knew that. They had a case in town that Castiel had sent them after. It had something to do with a Shapeshifter or a Changeling. They weren’t sure which it was yet. It had promise to be a vengeful spirit as well, which made everything so damn confusing and complicated. Dean mulled over the details of the hunt as the warm water cascaded over the knotted muscles in his back. He could really go for a masseuse right now, and a sexy one at that.

“Dean,” Sam called out, “Now it’s your turn to get moving! I called Bobby, and he’s got a lead on whatever killed that professor two towns over.”

“Alright, I’ll be out in three!” Dean replied, turning off the tap and stepping out of the small tub.

After almost slipping on the wet tile, Dean wrapped a towel around his waist and began his routine shave. He could tell Sam was getting impatient after three minutes turned into ten, which then proceeded to become fifteen. Dean chuckled as he slapped on some aftershave and slid his tongue across his freshly brushed teeth. _Minty fresh_ , he remarked, smiling at his reflection. He threw on his t-shirt and nearly forgot his necklace. There was a sharp pang in his chest, how could he ever forget it? Dean looked at the pendant solemnly for a moment as he rolled it between his fingers. Sighing, he looped it around his neck and finally stepped out of the bathroom. Sam looked at him exasperatedly and Dean shrugged.

“Let’s get huntin’,” he chirped with a smirk. He grabbed his jacket and keys on the way out the door with Sam in suit.

~~

“Detectives Juarez and Jansen,” Dean said with a flip of a fake ID, which went straight to his jacket pocket after the client got less than a second to examine it. Sam nodded after he did the same, tucking his own ID reading “Marcus Jansen” into his pants pocket. A nervous, bleary-eyed woman stood leaning against the doorjamb with an unimpressed expression. She cocked her eyebrows and smacked her lips loudly with a wave of her hand. Dean and Sam took that as an invitation to enter her home.

“Welcome, officers,” she muttered, “Sorry, I guess. Place’s been a mess since…”

Her voice cracked, stopping her from finishing her insincere apology. Dean eyed Sam, giving him the “okay” to begin the interrogation. They weren’t here to mess about with this drunken, mourning widow. They were here for clues to why her late husband had “committed suicide” by ripping a hole in his chest and throwing himself off the second floor balcony. The Winchesters most definitely did not think it was suicide based off their late night EMF readings two evenings before. Hopefully actually talking to the woman would give them some insight.

“Mrs. Eastman-“

“Ms. Eastman,” she interrupted with a quiet cough, “but you can call me Irene, please.”

“Right,” Sam added softly, “Irene, we’d just like to say that we are very sorry for your loss, but we would like to ask you a few questions about your husbands…passing.”

Irene nodded sadly and offered them a seat in her living room. The two brothers, in this case partners, obliged and Dean was almost too comfortable. He nearly plopped both feet on the coffee table, but Sam gave him a harsh nudge in the side before Dean ruined the whole thing. Dean grunted in opposition, but kept his etiquette and smiled empathetically at Irene. She gave them a curious look before sitting down herself.

“I’ve already, um, the police came by the other day to ask questions. Why are you here?” Irene questioned.

Dean grinned and cleared his throat before answering. _Boy do we get this question a lot_ , he pondered. _How many more times will it be?_ He leaned forward, explaining the usual business of how they were coming round a second time to make sure that every inch of the case was examined and all evidence was secure. As detectives, there were different fields covered than what day-to-day officers had to ask. Basically, they had a different set of questions that required more in-depth answers.

“So, Ms. Eastman, or Irene, was there anything unusual about your husband before his death? Any strange dreams, behaviors, dieting…?” Dean rambled off several options, all to which Irene shook her head.

“No, Jon was completely normal, or so it seemed. He woke up with a smile for work at the college down the street and came home with a smile for dinner. He was a happy man, he-“ Irene’s small smile wavered. “Wait, there was this one thing…”

Same and Dean leaned forward to rest their forearms on their knees. This was when the job got good. This was the part where the possibility of a hunt turned into the beginning of the hunt.

“He kept getting these strange voice messages. He shrugged them off, saying they were from some scam, but soon they became more frequent and…almost urgent-like. I heard one, the last one he got before…and it said,” Irene paused, “Actually, here. Listen for yourselves.”

All of a sudden, she stood up and rummaged in the purse that was sat on the kitchen table. Dean sat up straight and held his hand out to grasp the small flip phone that Irene handed him. He flipped it open and placed it between his and Sam’s ears to listen to the voice message. It was mainly static and white-noise, but a faint voice was clear through it all.

“ _Come to me, Jon. You will be mine_.”

Dean gulped down the nerves that were building in his chest, and he clapped the phone shut. Giving Sam a quick glance, Dean stood and handed the phone back to Irene. Sam stood as well, holding his hand out to shake Irene’s. She had that curious, yet peculiar look on her face once again as the “detectives” said their goodbyes.

“Thank you, Ms. Eastman. We’ll keep in touch,” Sam mumbled politely.

Irene nodded and escorted them to the front door. She watched as they climbed into their car and wave to her from the front seats. Her eyes glistened as she closed the door behind her, not noticing the Impala drive away swiftly in the opposition direction of the police department.

 


	2. One Twisted Mister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean visit the college where Jon Eastman was employed, and figure out what he's been up to.

“So Ms. Eastman last saw her husband the morning before he killed himself, or supposedly. No strange behaviors, but then there’s the odd voicemail message. Any clues what that’s about?” Sam wondered aloud, turning to Dean for his input.

Dean was tapping his fingers against the wheel and nodding his head to the rock music that was playing at soft volume. He didn’t answer Sam’s question, which prompted the research-inclined brother to swift the radio completely off. Dean pursed his lips and his brows furrowed in annoyance.

“What, Sam?” he asked, bringing his eyes to the road once again.

“I _asked_ you what you thought about the voicemail. Could it be a spirit, or maybe some kind of prank call?”

“Nah, it was a prostitute. No…no it was a stripper! No…wait…” Dean focused on something that was beyond Sam’s vision, something only Dean could see. “Well, the woman who left him the message was obviously seducing him, so he could have been having an affair with her. I don’t know, man, we need more dirt on the guy.”

Sam rolled his eyes and nodded solemnly. He opened up their dad’s journal, flipping through the pages to see if there had been any other occurrences in Blanket Town, Kentucky, that were similar to this possible case. Maybe the Winchester boys had it all wrong. It could be just a man who was tired and depressed who couldn’t live with his daily hardships anymore. If that were the reason, then what were his hardships?

“You know what? Let’s just go check out the college he worked at. Someone there ought to know _something_ about this Eastman guy,” Dean mumbled. He took a swift turn at the next stop sign. It led them down a bumpy, dirt road that eventually smoothed out into an elegantly paved driveway. It seemed as if Dean had stumbled upon the college; he only used this road to make a U-turn and head back the way they came. He gave Sam a wary look, but continued down the road leading up to the parking lot before the main lobby. Dean parked, pocketed his silver 9mm, and locked the Impala behind him.

“Cover story?” Dean whispered to Sam as he held the front door open for him with a smile.

Sam returned the grin, saying, “Follow my lead,” to which Dean nodded.

They entered the beautifully decorated main lobby and wandered the halls until they found the administration’s office. A woman with cropped black hair and 80’s styled glasses manned the main phone line and was chatting away with a girlfriend it seemed. A light knock at the window startled her, and she whipped her head around to see Sam and Dean waving politely from outside her office. She muttered a quick word to her gossip-mate and gestured for the boys to enter. They stepped inside gingerly, and the name plate on the desk read _Mrs. Johnson_.

“What can I do for you two boys?” Mrs. Johnson asked sweetly.

“We’re students of Mr. Eastman’s, and we were wondering if maybe guidance was open for grief counseling?” Sam explained with a sad, shy smile.

“Oh, dear, yes their department is right down the hallway. Take a right after you exit the door,” she pointed. “They’ll help you with anything you need. Such an unexpected tragedy his death was. He was so young, too. Poor man, never caught a break in this place, let me tell you.”

“Oh, really?” Dean encouraged. “What about his job was stressful?”

“What about his job _wasn’t_ stressful, you mean. The man was an overachiever. He had long nights spent in his office daily for office hours. Always young girls headed in there though, so I don’t know why he would complain. Sure, he was married, but what young guy like him wouldn’t want to see a pretty lady every now and then, hm?”

“I hear that,” Dean chuckled. Suddenly, he winced and clutched his side, glaring at Sam from the corner of his eyes. _Damn it, Sammy,_ Dean cursed to himself. He rubbed the sore spot and admired Sam’s strength. That boy was becoming more of a man than Dean was, and Dean had suffered Hell.

“Now, I know you boys aren’t my usual gossip girls, but there was this one young little lady that came in about a night or two before Mr. Eastman kicked the bucket. Excuse my term, dear me,” Mrs. Johnson placed a hand over her heart apologetically. The phone once before in her hand had been long forgotten and had eventually been settled on her desk. “This girl was quite the charmer. She walked right in without any notice before hand by me, which most students do when they come to see a professor. Not her, though. She walked on by in a tight little skirt and five-inch heels _at least!_ Only the Lord knows what she wanted to talk about with Mr. Eastman.”

Both Dean and Sam’s eyebrows raised in curiosity. This one girl changed everything. Dean had most likely been right about Mr. Eastman having an affair. She could have been a student, but there was a slight chance of that after the description of her outfit by Mrs. Johnson. Sam thanked Mrs. Johnson for her help, and she welcomed them back for anytime they wanted the daily dish on mishaps with Mr. Eastman.

Dean led the way out of the office and down the corridor. He repositioned the gun in his inside jacket pocket. He nudged Sam lightly to grab his attention from the artwork that was plastered all over the walls opposite them. This building was weird, even for a college willing to express the talent of its students.

“So Mr. Eastman was taking advantage of his office hours,” Dean smirked.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Sam chuckled, “What we need to do after talking with these counselors is to check the security camera tapes in the Private Staff office. I saw it while we were in Ms. Chatty Kathy’s room. It’s two doors down from hers on the opposite side.”

“Sounds like a plan, Sammy. More to our backstory now…what classes does Mr. Eastman even teach?”

“Well, when Mrs. Johnson was rambling on about how high those heels were, there was a staff roster on the wall behind her. It listed each of the staff member’s names; custodians, counselors, administrators, deans, professors…you name it, and it was on there. Beside the name was the subject and whether they had clocked in or not. Long story short, Mr. Eastman teaches AP Biology and Introduction to Sociology.”

“Okay then, so let’s be Intro to Sociology students because I don’t know a damn thing about science,” Dean cringed, reminiscing about the horrid days of high school biology and anatomy. He didn’t ever pay attention in those classes, but he remembered that they were incredibly boring and difficult.

By the time Dean was done holding back the stinging tears that were brought about by memories of dissecting frogs, they were at the doors to the Guidance Department. Several voices came from inside, and Dean figured it was his turn to introduce him and his brother. It was usually him who did the introductions, but lately Sam was taking the lead on most cases. Dean was always concise about their subtle interrogations while Sam was the consoling partner in crime who took things gently and one step at a time. However, ever since Dean returned from the fiery pits, Sam had acquired this air of higher power and dominance over him. Dean didn’t quite like it yet. There was something off about Sam’s behavior…

* * *

After knocking on the door, Dean turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open. The voices abruptly stopped and a man stood up from his seat in the corner desk. A warm .smile appeared on his face to replace the nervous stare that focused on Dean especially. For some reason everyone thought Dean was always the threat. Why was that? He did look a little intimidating, he could admit to that, but Sam was just as dangerous as he was. There was no sense in the situation that frequently presented itself.

“Come in, please,” the man standing chirped cheerfully, “How can we help you? Do you need directions to the highway or the nearest McDonalds?”

“No, actually, we’re just here to talk to you about what happened with Mr. Eastman if you don’t mind. We were in his Sociology class and, to be honest, are a little traumatized. My brother especially, he never could handle suicides,” Dean grunted at another brotherly shove in his side before he continued, “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course, my room is open to anyone,” a woman with dirty blond hair called from the door at the far end of the room. “Bring in those two boys, Garrett?”

Garrett, who must have been the balding man still standing awkwardly by his desk, sighed and scooted them towards the side room. A tall, gorgeous woman (by Dean’s judgment) sat behind a small desk with an open file by her hand. Her nude painted nails rested in top of the paper-clipped files that no doubt had to do with Mr. Eastman. She smiled warmly and offered the Winchesters a seat across from her. Not once did she rise from her chair, which Dean found strange. _It seemed like most people would have risen out of respect or something_ , he thought. He shrugged and took a seat, reaching his hand out to shake hers. She shook it firmly, and then repeated the process with Sam.

“So, I’ve had many students come in this week to talk about Professor Eastman’s passing. It’s very unfortunate, for all of us. He was a significant figure in our community. It was sad to see him go like that,” the woman’s voice faltered at her last words. “I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Kathy Garrison, head of the department.”

“I’m Keith, and this is my pal, Keith,” Dean chuckled, “Weird coincidence, but we’ve been the best of buds since we started Professor Eastman’s class. Sort of like kismet, I guess you could say.”

Kathy narrowed her eyes in suspicion at the two Keiths, but carried on with her regular routine of therapeutic questions.

“What would you boys like to discuss? Were you very close with the professor? I knew that he offered a lot of his time to his students. He was dedicated to his job, dedicated to _you_.”

“Well, we were just shocked, like _completely_ shocked. I, personally, didn’t think that he was suffering enough to…to…” Sam’s lip quivered and he leaned back in his seat, one hand covering his face. Dean silently applauded him. The kid was certainly upping his game since Dean had returned, but still…there was an unnatural gleam in Sam’s eyes lately…

“I understand. Not many of us can even begin to comprehend the inner struggles that each of us deal with, which is why it’s important to talk about how we feel. No matter how hard it is for you, or how bad you think life is. It always gets better, and committing suicide is only a permanent evasion from the problem. Right?” Kathy asked sternly.

“Of course, we understand. Loud and clear,” Dean replied. He flashed a smile and thought of ways to dance around the guidance crap and get to the chase. He wanted to know exactly what sort of inner struggles Eastman had been dealing with. That’s why they had sauntered into this mushy feelings parade.

“Did he ever come to you and talk? I mean, do the guidance counselors have heart-to-hearts with teachers as well as students?” queried the Keith with short, sandy brown hair.

“Sometimes they do, yes. Mr. Eastman never came to talk with me though, and even if he did I couldn’t discuss it with you boys. That would cost me my job,” she smiled and closed the file lying on her desk. She hadn’t looked at it once, but the name **EASTMAN, JON** was clearly visible on the side tab. What was that all about? Putting it out in the open for Sam and Dean to see wasn’t a casual gesture. It was like she _wanted_ them to see the folder.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Garrison. Thank you for your time and maybe Keith and I will visit again this week.” Sam stood up and offered his hand again to the now weary-eyed counselor.

Kathy dropped her hands to her sides and pushed her chair back. She slowly made her way around her desk, but without lifting a foot. Dean sighed softly as he saw the black ballet flats resting on the footholds of a wheelchair. He instantly felt remorse for thinking badly about her greeting etiquette. He hoped the big man upstairs, and Cas, would forgive him for that.

“Sorry for not telling you two before. It’s still a bit upsetting, only happened around a month ago. I guess these past few weeks have been tough for all of us,” Kathy smiled sadly and shook Sam’s hand, then Dean’s.

After being shown the way out by Garrett, the Winchester brothers headed down the corridor. They snuck past the administrations’ office, ducking when needed to avoid Mrs. Johnson’s eyes, and slipped into the unlocked door available to staff only. Sam plopped down into the swivel chair that faced that small televisions connected to the security cameras scattered throughout campus.

“So what do we check? Should we start around a week ago? This mysterious girl could have come more than once,” Sam mumbled as he flipped through various tapes that were stacked on the desk. There were at least thirty or forty tapes visible, and boxes beneath the shelves across the room. Dean hoped that the most recent ones were those passing through Sam’s hands.

“Check last Friday night’s tape. That was a few days before his death, Monday, and I’m sure he doesn’t have office hours on the weekends. For his dirty little secret, on the weekends he might have had better ideas than a musty old office,” Dean suggested.

Sam nodded in agreement and flipped through the plastic cases until he found one labeled Friday, May 10th, 2010. When the running noise of the ribbon grew in speed, dark images danced on the screen closest to Sam. They cleared after a few minutes, and the screen showed the main lobby. Several students passed in and out of the doors, indicating the time being late afternoon. Sam fast forwarded the time closer to when little Miss Sunshine would have showed up for her rendezvous with the professor. Dean leaned intently towards the monitor, looking for any signs of fuzzy shapes or figures walking in or out the front door.

“Stop, stop the tape,” Dean suddenly demanded.

Sam whipped his fingers to the keys and paused the recording. A tall, slender figure clad in a tight mini skirt and those damn five inch heels was slightly visible in the shadows of the hallway. Dean grinned triumphantly at his quick catch. If he hadn’t noticed her then, there was no chance of either of the hunters finding her in the tape at all. She had a gaunt, yet beautiful face that was framed with long, dark ringlets. There was a glimmer in her eyes that was evident in the outdated black and white video.

“That right there is our mystery woman.”


	3. Explanations

Friday morning and afternoon were spent searching various online databases for the woman’s identity. Sam’s eyes were glued to his laptop for hours while Dean came and went for breakfast and lunch. They had little luck in the beginning, but just as Dean was donning his jacket on for the third time, Sam found a hit.

“Dean…You are _not_ going to believe this.”

Dean let his jacket fall off his shoulders, swiftly catching it before it touched the crusty carpet. He hung it up on the hook by the front window in their motel room. Sam spun the laptop’s monitor so that the glowing information faced Dean.

“You would be surprised by the things I believe,” Dean sighed, bending over to squint at the tiny print.

“It’s an obituary for Samantha Jones. She died three years ago, suicide. She had jumped off the balcony in her house, landing on the banister below and ripping a hole straight threw her chest. Sound familiar?” Sam’s eyes twinkled with excitement. He licked his lips anxiously and opened another tab on his browser. “This is her picture from an article on local suicides in the past decade.”

Dean gaped wide-eyed at the photo. He slowly stood up straight and chuckled softly, shaking his head. Now smiling, he walked over to his bed to grab a suit jacket and tie. Sam packed up his laptop and other opened folder files while Dean headed to the bathroom to change.

“Well, Sammy, it looks like us detectives need to make another visit with our client.”

“You sure got that right,” Sam agreed, shrugging on his suit jacket and tossing his tie over his shoulder. He grabbed the keys from the table and leaned against the door jamb as Dean changed into his formal attire.

Minutes later they were sitting in the Impala, zooming past small cafes and bars that littered the town. The cluttered buildings soon scattered across an interminable highway that was enclosed by large expanses of farmland. The smooth pavement turned into a rocky road leading to the Eastman house and other similar country homes. When the Winchester brothers had first visited the house, they hadn’t admired its simple beauty.

The door was painted a cool blue, and the house itself was a white faintly tinged turquoise. The windows were covered with navy shutters, although one on the first level of the house was wide open. From inside, a shadowy figure crossed the living room to turn on a light. It was Ms. Eastman, Irene, and she looked even worse than she did the last time Sam and Dean had a light interrogation. Fearing that this heavier topic might wear her down even more, Dean allowed Sam to take the wheel just as he had with the Impala. Sam was the “good cop”, Dean concluded, taking the rear as they walked up to the front door.

Suddenly, just as Dean was about to press the doorbell, a shrill ringing pierced the air. Sam blushed, which surprised Dean, and hastily pulled his cell phone out of his inner pocket.

“Sorry, um, gotta take this,” he mutter gruffly.

Dean followed Sam with wary eyes as he trudged down the steps and over to the parked car at the bottom of the driveway. He figured that it was either Bobby or the local police department, whom Sam had called earlier about Samantha Jones. _I guess this means I have to be the mushy one asking questions_ , Dean heaved a sigh. He knocked on the door rather roughly and waited impatiently for Irene to greet him at the door. A swish of curtains coming from the window at Dean’s right alerted the cautious “detective”, and he leaned over to see what was going on. When Dean returned his eyes to the door, Irene was peeking through the peep hole. She sighed shakily and pulled it open abruptly, startling Dean in the process.

“Hello, Ms. Eastman… Irene. We’re just here to ask a few more follow up questions on the lead we just found back at the department. Are you available right now?” Dean asked in the gentlest way he could. He hoped he had pulled off the best Sam puppy-dog look that he could.

“Of course, yes. Come right in,” she waved him inside, glancing at Sam’s retreating figure.

“Don’t worry, my partner will be with us after he takes a call from our supervisor,” Dean flashed a smile and wiped his shoes on the welcome mat. Irene nodded and closed the door carefully behind him.

In the meantime, Sam was pacing back and forth. He whispered harshly and rapidly into the mouthpiece of his cell phone while clutching the hair above his ear tightly with one hand.

“I need more, now,” he growled, “It’s been two weeks. Dean hasn’t said anything yet, but I know that he can tell something is up. I just need to quench it and maybe stock up a bit so this doesn’t happen again. I can’t control myself, Ruby. I feel like I’m going stir crazy.”

“ _Calm down, Sam. I’m on the other side of the state on business. I can get to you in maybe three or four days. Drink some tea to settle your nerves or maybe take that stick out of your ass and_ be patient. _I can’t be your handy drug dealer that’s always around the corner._ ”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I just don’t want Dean to get involved and get in the way of everything. We’re too close for him to ruin it all, and you know he will if he finds out.”

“ _Again, Sam, chill out. I’ll be there soon. Maybe I’ll be there in the next two days instead if I can finish here quickly. Get rest, be safe, and I’ll see you soon._ ”

Sam sighed and closed his eyes briefly. “Okay, see you soon, Ruby.”

He snapped the phone shut and kicked the back wheel of the Impala fiercely. If Dean had caught him doing that, he would be dead. However, if Dean caught him with Ruby and figured out his plan to have a showdown with Lilith, Sam would be _more_ than dead. Dean would probably kill him, have Castiel resurrect him, and then kill him again. He needed to see Ruby though; her blood was what was keeping him sane at the moment. He hadn’t had a drink in what seemed like months when it was really only a week or two. His craving for the once nasty liquid was becoming urgent, and he needed doses more frequently than before.

Sam ran his hands furiously through his hair, trying to calm himself down. He doubted the whole tea thing would work. He’d always hated the taste of the stuff, but maybe Ruby was right. The herbal aroma might at least help him sleep better than usual. As of late, he had been up and walking around the towns they had been passing through while Dean slept. Walking definitely slowed down his racing heartbeat that kept him up until the wee hours of the morning. It used to be relaxing to stride down the empty streets alone, but his steps had become brisk and short in the past two nights. He needed Ruby’s blood _now_.

It was slowly making him stronger. It amped his psychic abilities way past his limits, and his exercising was becoming easier every chance he had to practice with Ruby. They were a solid team, but sometimes Ruby pushed him too far. He had aching headaches that felt as though his brain was expanding through his skull, throbbing with an unbearable pain. Constant nose bleeds made his upper lip stain red, which he had to occasionally explain to Dean that it was from strawberries or making out with some random barista. Dean always laughed at the barista stories, clapping him on the back for a job well done, but Sam knew that Dean was suspicious. It was his nature.

Dean was probably getting worried now. Sam had been outside talking for ten minutes now, and he was supposed to lead the “grilling” of Irene. He had a softer approach than Dean, so he figured his older brother was struggling right now. He jogged to the front door, knocked lightly and pushed it open.

“Dean? Ms. Eastman?” he called out, stepping into the front hall and peering into several rooms for his partner and client. He found them down the hall making small talk in the kitchen, the room next to the living room on the right.

“In here, Detective Jansen,” Irene half-whispered, eyes facing the floor.

Sam gazed hesitantly at the seat across from Dean who gave him a knowing look with raised eyebrows. The younger brother tried to shake off his trembling hunger and sat down on the plush cushions. A notebook in the pocket within his jacket held his notes for this case, and so far there was little written. The only thing they were certain of was Samantha Jones; and she just so happened to have a sister that was the first to arrive at the scene of Samantha’s death.

“So, Ms. Eastman, we came here with a few questions. Recently, we’ve heard that your sister, Samantha Jones, died three years ago by suicide. Is that correct?” Sam inquired.

“Yes” – Irene sighed and rubbed her fingertips against the nude skin around her temples – “She was a few years younger than me, always visiting and having dinner with Jon and me. She and Jon were close for in-laws. They would go out bowling or to the movie theaters when I was on vacation with friends or something. I was happy because Jon had few friends, and the ones he did have were dicks from work. They were best friends until…”

Her words faded into a soft mumbling as her brows furrowed and lips pursed. Sam scribbled down what she had expressed in his handheld notepad and kept glancing at Irene. He waited for her to speak up and finish her sentence, but she turned her head to the window. A single black raven perched on the branch of a skeleton-like tree in the Eastman’s backyard. It was the only tree in the entire field behind their house that wasn’t blossoming or sprinkled with bee’s nests. Dean coughed, Sam blinked. The raven was gone. The branch stood lonely once again, and Sam returned his attention back to the situation at hand.

“Until what, exactly, Ms. Eastman?” Dean questioned, leaning forward and resting his elbows casually on his knees.

“Until her death… After she died, Jon was back to his normal buddies and I sensed that he had taken up drinking. He got moodier and stayed late for work. I always thought that something was off about him, and then he killed himself. Just like that my husband was taken away from me just the same as my sister was. I couldn’t…I still can’t…” Irene placed a hand over her mouth and tried to stifle her tears. Sam reached over to lay a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. She flinched at the unexpected contact and sat straighter, wiping her eyes dry.

Dean nodded, “Do you ever suspect that your husband, Jon, and Samantha maybe…?”

“Maybe what, detective?” Irene snapped.

“Maybe what they had was something more. I don’t want to accuse your husband of-“

“Then don’t! Don’t make assumptions about my family and don’t come back to this house!” Irene shrieked, standing sharply from her chair.

Sam and Dean rose from the couch hastily and walked briskly to the front door. Dean spun around to apologize as Sam turned the doorknob, but Irene was nowhere to be seen. The brothers trudged down the front steps and over to the Impala, Dean taking the wheel. The sun was high in the sky, illuminating the sky and the roads below. However, darkness fell over the fields and casted shadows all over. Sam shuddered faintly, which Dean noticed like he always did. No matter how hard Sam tried to hide his small ticks, Dean saw even the tiniest fraction of movements that Sam made. Something was up, and he planned to find out what.


	4. Digging Up Old News

_Screams and laughter came from every which way, and his vision was a deep burgundy. He tried closing his eyes to the sounds, but that only intensified their volume. His eyes flashed open at a cruel, maniacal laughter that was too familiar. It was followed by an agonizing screech, and then silence. Finally, there was silence._

_"How about it, son? Would you like to give it a try?" a grainy voice cooed with a chuckle in its throat._

_"Hm, let me think about that... No," he spat, wiggling in his painfully tight bindings and hooks._

_"Always so quick to deny the pleasure of this job. Why is that? Your daddy sure as hell wanted to do it. In fact, he did!"_

_"You're lying through your teeth, you bastard. My dad would NEVER senselessly torture souls," the prisoner lashed out furiously. He wanted this demon away from him, now._

_"You're right. You Winchesters are just too damn heroic and stubborn these days, aren't you Dean?" he hissed._

_"Alastair..." Dean struggled desperately in his chains at the sound of approaching footsteps. He wanted nothing to do with Alastair and his inhumane works. Then again, there really was nothing human about him in the first place._

_"Oh, Deany-boy. You'll soon see that my job isn't as awful as you think. You'll crack one day, I can feel it, right here." Once the creature moved closer, Dean could see him placing a firm hand over his heart, or where it would be if he had one._

_"You son of a bitch" Dean cursed through gritted teeth. His eyes watered at the anger in his entire being, craving to reach out and strangle Alastair._

_"Mm, what a petty insult. You'll have to try harder than that,” Alastair snickered._

_He twirled a knife between his fingers and stalked around Dean’s imprisonment. A sickeningly sweet smile twitched at his lips. Dean shuddered at the possibilities of Alastair awakening the immoral demon inside of him, the inner demon that’s been dying to be unleashed. Dean knew that he couldn’t hold on much longer, especially if Alastair continued to torment him as well. This agonizing pain was too much to deal with, but he had to endure it. He had to be strong…for Sammy._

_“No? Keeping quiet and sullen as usual? If you insist…”_

_Alastair whipped his hand to Dean’s side, slashing the knife through his skin. Dean cried out from the excruciating pain that wracked through his body. Again and again the knife pierced his flesh. Again and again Dean whimpered in denial to Alastair’s offer. He would be defiant until he couldn’t hold on anymore. He could never…he would never…ever…_

Dean awoke with a start and bolted upwards from his bed in the motel. Beads of sweat dripped from his nose after rolling down his forehead. After a few minutes of taking several deep breaths, Dean collapsed back into the pillows. He shut his eyes from the blinding light that was peeking through the curtains, but ghastly images appeared on his eyelids. Dean blinked his eyes back open slowly and saw that Sam was waking up in the bed across the room. Today was going to be a long one. They still needed more information on this Samantha Jones, and even more information on Mr. Eastman.

“So?” Sam grumbled, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes. “What’s up for today?”

Dean stood from his bed and stretched his arms to the ceiling. His vision blurred for a moment from standing up too fast, and he stumbled backwards a few steps. After regaining his balance, he headed towards the small kitchen to grab a cup of water. These nightmares about Hell were making him parched, which made him doubt whether or not they were just nightmares and not something more.

“Well, I was thinking of just finding the body and torching the bones. That would end it nice and quick without the trouble of risking anyone else’s lives.”

“That sounds easy enough, but what if it isn’t Samantha’s spirit? It could be a Shapeshifter for all we know,” Sam countered, reaching for a t-shirt that was crumpled on the chair beside his bed. He drew it over his head, mussing up his hair in the process. With a swoop of his hand, the long locks were fixed into place.

That reminded Dean to tell Sam to get a haircut, but what did it matter? It was such a silly thing to worry about. _Heck, I wish that was all we had to worry about_ , Dean sighed. He tossed the water back into the sink and crushed the paper Dixie cup in his fist before lobbing it into the trashcan. He must have let his mind wander for too long about the haunting laugh of the malicious demon because Sam walked over and rested his palm on Dean’s shoulder.

“Hey, Dean. Are you okay?” he asked softly. His eyes looked for answers on Dean’s face, but all he saw was a cold response.

“Yeah,” Dean grunted. “Peachy. Let’s get ready then head back to the college. I want to have a word with a few of Eastman’s colleagues.”

Sam nodded, letting his hand slip from Dean’s shoulder to his back. He gave him a rough, brotherly nudge before grabbing a few things from his bag on the small kitchen table. Dean stood by the sink a moment more as she shuddered faintly at the cool touch of the knife beneath his fingers. He closed his eyes slowly, gripping the knife at the handle. He readied himself to strike, but then snapped back to reality. Dean dropped the knife from his hands to realize that it was just a figment of imagination. _God, I need more sleep. Hey…speaking of God…_

Dean’s thoughts wandered to Castiel. The guy was an angel, right? All-knowing, a messenger of God…couldn’t he spy on Sam or take a quick trip into his cranium to see what he’s been up to? It sure would make Dean’s life a hell of a lot easier without having to worry about Sam’s wellbeing and sanity most of the time. Dean could confront Sam himself, but he doubted that Sam would simply come clean and tell him. It was either he would figure it out, or get Cas to do the dirty work for him. Also, Dean did have the advantage since Sam had no clue about his brother’s little friend from upstairs. It would definitely give Dean the element of surprise. He made a mental note to give Cas a call, however that worked.

* * *

 

The wind howled against the glass panes of the farmhouse windows and rain pounded at the roof. The weather had taken a turn for the worst in the past 24 hours, and there was no explanation for it. Being March, spring was on its way, but it was a little early for Kentucky. Rain was common, but not this sudden. Normally it was proceeded by cloudy afternoons at least a week ahead of time before a store this huge. The shutters hinged to the windows of the Eastman house battered against the outer walls, causing Irene to jump in her seat at the kitchen table.

She blinked once, then twice before rubbing a hand over her eyes. A lukewarm cup of coffee was gripped tightly in her hand, full to the brim. She prayed to God that the whistling gales would fade into silent breezes soon so she could sleep more than three consecutive hours. Irene had been up all night again after having another dreamless sleep. Although she fell asleep to meet only more darkness, there was always this voice whispering in her ears. It sounded too familiar, and she shivered at the face that appeared behind her eyelids now. With a scrape of her fingers through wiry blond hair, Irene stood with the cup still glued to her palm.

The shutters continued to knock wildly, giving Irene a fright with every step she took, as she shuffled to the sink to dump the mug’s cool contents down the drain. She yawned and decided that another try at a short nap wouldn’t hurt anybody. The doctor promised that her sleep medication would be ready at the pharmacist’s soon, and she wished that soon meant this afternoon. The cold coffee slid from the mug and trickled down the drain. Irene shut her eyes to the sound, her head lolling on her neck as sleep crept up behind her. It laid a hand on her shoulder, but Irene’s eyes flashed open at its touch. It wasn’t sleep reaching out for her. Sleep didn’t hand pale, slender fingers that gripped her shoulder tightly, its nails digging deeply into her flesh.

Irene’s eyes slid to the hand that held her tightly and spun around to see that the kitchen was empty. Her breath was shallow and sudden. She stumbled backwards until her back hit the edge of the sink, dropping the mug so she could hide her face in her hands. It crashed to the floor and tiny ceramic shards flew across the tiles. Irene trembled and tried to shake the overwhelming anxiety that rolled down her spine. The clock struck 11:00 AM, waking Irene from her stupor. She released the deep breath that she didn’t know she had been holding in. A shimmering vapor escaped her lips as she sighed.

Irene gasped as more fog-like mist appeared while she breathed. The temperature had dropped at least twenty or so degrees and the howling wind outside had come to a halt. Chills swept over Irene’s skin, gooseflesh scattered on her forearms. She wrapped her arms around her torso and headed towards her bedroom right. She trudged down the hall until she reached the door, which stood ajar. Irene squinted, peeking through the small crack and into her unlit room. There was a tall, shadowy figure lurking in the corner with its head facing the floor. Long, black ringlets covered the figure’s face, and Irene guessed it was a young woman. Irene placed her hand against the door and slowly pushed it open.

The shadow woman lifted her head abruptly, revealing a porcelain complexion with dark circles around her eyes, as if she hadn’t sleep in centuries. Irene let out a long, blood-curdling scream before sprinting out of the room. She pushed through her weariness and ran to the front hallway. The rain had picked up and the wind screeched louder than ever; the temperature was even colder than before. Irene’s breath hitched in her throat and began to hyperventilate. _There is something in the house. It’s going to kill me. I need to get out of here,_ Irene repeated in her mind over and over again.

Boots and jackets were lined up against the wall and coat rack beside the front door. She fumbled on a pair of boots before throwing a jacket around her shoulders. Her fingers were numb with fear, and she had trouble twisting the doorknob in the right direction. Locks of hair shielded her vision, and she hastily swiped them away from her eyes. Finally, the door opened to her favor. Irene smiled for barely a second before the golden knob flew from her grasp and slammed shut. Again, there was a hovering weight that pressed against her back, and Irene turned slowly to stare into the eyes of the shadow woman.

She towered above Irene’s head, and her legs seemed to stretch on into infinity. Irene shuffled backwards until her back hit the door. The woman kept close, and Irene whimpered at the gap closing quickly between them. The woman smiled and lifted her hand to smooth her fingertips across Irene’s cheek. The shaky woman flinched at the freezing touch. A grimace set on her lips and she met her visitor’s eyes reluctantly.

“Samantha, please,” Irene begged breathlessly.

The woman, her eyes sparkling at the mention of her name, dropped her hand to her side. Giggles built in her throat and soon flooded the room. Irene’s eyes widened in horror as Samantha continued to laugh hysterically. Her abnormal laughing stopped abruptly and she raised her hands to Irene’s chest.

“Now it’s your time, sister,” Samantha muttered, her nails scraping at the center of her sister’s chest as Irene’s screams were drowned out by the wailing gales.


	5. Wasted Secrets

It had been a rocky trip to the college for Sam and Dean. Sam tried sleeping during the ride, but most of the roads were bumpy twists and turns that easily kept Sam from drifting into a peaceful slumber. Dean kept the soft rock station on low volume for Sam’s benefit. Dean himself was a lover for something a bit more ACDC like, he supposed. None of this mushy crap Sam was into.

The sun was rising higher into the sky as the Impala pulled into the parking lot of Kentucky State College. Sam grumbled and tucked into his seat, refusing to get up. The interior of the car was comfortable warmth that served as a snug woolen duvet to Sam. He shook off Dean’s persistent whacks to the shoulder and closed his eyes tightly against the glare bouncing off the window. The inside of his eyelids was a deep crimson as it always is when the sun rays are shining on your face. He could hear Dean sighing impatiently and turning the radio back on. They had a few minutes to spare, and Sam was going to make the best of them.

He hadn’t been sleeping at all lately. Maybe it was the hunger, or maybe it was the anxiety of keeping his secret from Dean. His brother must be seeing the signs now because Sam was doing an awful job at hiding them. It was growing more and more difficult every day. He needed to meet up with Ruby soon if he was going to survive another day without lashing out in spasms from his lack of intake. Demon blood was his drug. Sam was a hopeless addict. There was no end to the dark tunnel of this fatal obsession; at least he didn’t think there was.

“Sam, get your ass out of this car before I shove it out,” Dean growled.

“Mm, Dean, five more minutes,” Sam mumbled sleepily, but he sat up anyway. He knew that if he resisted his brother any longer, Dean would get insanely pissed off. His cranky mood would ruin the entire investigation and they would be back at square one. Sam decided not to risk it.

“Alright, _Keith_ , I’m up. Ready to dig deeper for Eastman’s dirty little secret?”

“You betcha, _Keith_ ,” Dean chuckled and stepped out of the Impala.

The air outside was cool despite the blazing sun above their heads. Although it was an early Saturday morning, a friend of Mr. Eastman’s had agreed to meet the Keiths in his office. It was down the hall from the guidance department, and the pair of dedicated “students” easily navigated through the small building. Once they reached the door labeled **PROFESSOR CARLILE** , a few knocks and a muffled response gained them entrance in the room. The fuzzy image that had been visible through the cloudy window was revealed as Sam and Dean stepped through the entrance.

“Welcome, boys. Take a seat,” Professor Carlile waved them to two ornate armchairs in front of his desk. He had wiry glasses that slid down his crooked nose slightly, and tufts of white hair protruded from his scalp in a ring around his head.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Mr. Carlile. It’s become a private investigation due to the recent evidence and threat towards the family. We appreciate you keeping our identities a secret,” Sam spoke quietly, eyeing the security cameras in the corner of the room.

“It’s no problem, detectives. I was close friends with Jon, and to see him pass like that was devastating. You wanted to know about the affair? That was quite a while ago, you know.”

“We understand that Samantha died three years ago, did Mr. Eastman see her around that time, or before?” Dean asked.

“It was a month or so before her death. They had been seeing each other on and off again while Jon was married to Samantha’s sister, Irene Jones. You must know that already though. Anyway, I told him that he wasn’t being faithful, and that he should end it immediately. He never listened to my warnings, but eventually he cut the whole thing off. It was done here, in fact. In his office one night, he told her he couldn’t see her anymore. From what I know, she was extremely upset about it. She must have really loved him because she left in tears. Not sure how she ran so fast in those heels, but she did. Then five weeks later, she had thrown herself off the balcony in the Eastman’s house while they were off on vacation. Tragic to commit suicide over something like that,” Professor Carlile’s voice faded as his story came to an end.

Sam and Dean sat speechless in their chairs. Samantha had been so upset with Jon for not choosing her over her sister that she killed him. It wasn’t exactly the strangest thing that the Winchesters had heard, but it was still eerie to hear the story so alike to many others they’ve dealt with. Dean cleared his throat gruffly, his Adam’s apple bobbing thickly in his throat.

“Wow, and then three years later the same happens to Mr. Eastman – Jon. That’s just…yikes,” Dean grunted, wiping a hand across his mouth and picking his lips together briefly.

Mr. Carlile coughed into his sleeve that was dressed in a fine work suit. The sun was beginning to settle comfortably in the middle of the sky, and the light in the small workplace was dimming slightly. Mr. Carlile’s eyes flicked to the clock on his desk, but it wasn’t as discreetly as he had intended it to be. Sam and Dean had taken up enough of his time with their disturbing case. Their conservation had come to a very unpleasant end, but it was the perfect place to stop.

“Well, thank you for taking with us, professor. We’re sorry we asked you to come out on a Saturday, and we’ll be sure to-“

“No, no, no. It was my pleasure to help in any way that I could. If you have any more questions, email me or call me at my personal number,” the professor interrupted Sam, handing him a business card that listed the mentioned methods of contact.

Mr. Carlile stood and walked the undercover detectives to the lobby, where he waved solemnly to them as they strolled leisurely to their car. He admired it and remembered when he had one similar to it. _But that was years ago…_ A sudden flash of darkness sped towards his office, and Mr. Carlile spotted it from the corner of his eye. He hastily followed the unknown shadow down the hall and into his workspace, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Mr. Carlile chuckled nervously to himself, trying to shake off that heavy, daunting feeling rising in his chest. It was like someone was watching him. That was ridiculous, of course. He was the only one left in the building.

 _Not for long,_ he thought. His hours were done today, and he packed up his things quickly. What he didn’t notice as he shut the door to his office and locked it tightly, was the tall gorgeous figure that stood hauntingly in the corner…hunger for more.

~*~

“Cas, I don’t know if you can hear me, and I hate doing this, but if you could, uh, pop in for a sec to talk…that’d be…um…” Dean stuttered and fumbled with the right words to say.

He didn’t exactly enjoy “praying” to Cas like this. It was uncomfortable and made him squirm when he had to talk to an empty room for five minutes before the angel actually showed up. Although he’s only done it once or twice before, Dean couldn’t stand doing it anymore. He opened his mouth as if to call out to Cas again, but thought better of it. The damn winged S.O.B. wasn’t coming, and Dean was going to have to deal with his own problems. _Why am I even asking Cas for help? It’s not like he’ll fly right in and-_

A soft whooshing noise came from the corner of the motel room, causing Dean to stop in his tracks. He was halfway to the front door when he spun around to see none other than Castiel. The nerdy angel, as Dean liked to call him, stood awkwardly in the crevice of the conjoining walls. His tie was crooked and his hair disheveled like he had hit turbulence or something on his way down to Middle Earth. Dean eyed him cautiously and rotated his torso so he was facing Cas fully. The silence was intensely painful for the both of them, like nails on a chalkboard. Cas was the first to speak.

“You…called.”

Dean nodded and swiftly turned around to head for the fridge. If he was going to endure this conversation without wanting to kill himself out of either embarrassment for praying or just plain ole’ awkwardness, then he was going to need a beer. The fridge interior was cool against his cheeks as he bent over to swipe a bottle from the back of the shelf. He turned back around and, closing the door slowly, nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized that Cas was standing right behind him. He could spot the patterns in Cas’ deep blue irises.

“Man, Cas, take a step back. Ever heard of personal space?” Dean chided, maneuvering himself around Cas and taking a seat at the small work table.

“Well, yes, I have heard of personal space, but I-“

“Cas, chill. It was a rhetorical question. Just…leave it. Anyway, I wanted to ask you for a favor,” Dean began, popping open the beer bottle and guzzling almost half of it. “Sam looks like he’s headed for crazy town lately. He gets all twitchy like a withdrawn addict and takes these sketchy calls that he won’t tell me about. Could you maybe go all Wonder Woman and use your angel mojo to spy on him without seeing you?”

Cas scrunched his eyebrows together and was obviously thinking quite deeply about Dean’s request. The angel took a step forward to sit down and respond, but quickly remembered what Dean said about personal space. He wouldn’t want to offend his…friend? Cas briefly compared Dean to the angels in his garrison that he considered friends, but he didn’t exactly meet their standards. Yet, Cas felt that he could trust the human.

“I don’t know if I should be intruding on your personal issues, Dean. This appears to be something you should confront Sam about yourself. I don’t want to get involved with whatever business you and Sam-“

“Cas, please? I’ve tried asking him if he was alright, but he always shrugs it off or mumbles something before completely ignoring my questions. My last resort was you. I just want to know if there’s anything wrong with him that could get us mixed up in some weird, messed up crap that will ruin everything…again,” Dean was practically whimpering, but he kept his voice steady. He wouldn’t cry about this, not one single tear, and especially not in front of Castiel. It wasn’t a manly thing to do and could ruin his reputation as a hunter.

“I’ll…” Cas hesitated. He wanted to help Dean, he really did, but there was something holding him back. He was familiar with the trouble the Winchesters normally got into, and several angels had warned him about their family. There was a possibility that getting involved with the Winchesters could mean Castiel’s imminent death. But Cas, for some reason, felt the need to risk his life for these two brothers. “I’ll see what I can do, Dean.”

With a sigh, Dean started to say, “Thank you, Cas”, but the angel had already disappeared. Dean was taken aback by the abrupt exit. He hadn’t gotten used to that yet, but it seemed to be Castiel’s signature departure: leaving without a goodbye. A sharp pang rippled like a wave through Dean’s heart. He tried to shake off the crippling memories that flooded his vision, and eventually the moment had passed. The amber liquid trickled down his throat and a familiar buzz came over Dean. He must be pretty beat if one beer was bringing on drunken comfort this fast. Dean sighed and leaned his head to check the time. Sam should be back any minute from his walk, and later tonight they were torching the bitch’s bones. Dean didn’t bother asking where he had gone because he would be met with more lies from his distant brother. And he couldn’t handle it anymore.

There was a click, and Sam’s tall figure appeared in the doorway. It was late afternoon, only a couple hours after their meeting with Professor Carlile, and an hour before they were going to gank the skank (Dean chuckled internally at his clever rhyme). But there was something about the way Sam’s shoulders slumped lethargically, and his breath was coming in short spurts.

“Dean…Irene…quick,” he panted, lunging for the car keys and sprinting after the Impala. Dean, not hesitating for a moment, dropped his beer to the floor and dashed after his brother. He hoped that whatever it was, they weren’t too late.


	6. Revenge

 “Damn it.”

Police cars surrounded the Eastman house with a fire truck and ambulance sitting in the driveway. Dean closed his eyes in frustration and looked over to Sam in the passenger seat. His brother had the same look of defeat in the lines of his frown that mirrored Dean’s. _Looks like the sneaky bitch did her job before we could finish ours_ , Dean cursed. He stuffed his ID in his inner pocket and slipped his gun into the back of his pants, hiding it with his suit jacket. Sam did the same and opened his door to the thick air that often comes after a rainstorm.

They walked briskly to the front porch where several officers demanded to see identification. Dean and Sam obliged, their plastic identities gaining them entrance into the crime scene. Unfortunately, they had to step over it in order to actually enter the house. Irene’s body lay still at the front door, a gaping hole through her chest. The coroner’s assistant was laying a white sheet over her body when Sam pulled over the chief to ask a few questions.

“Officer, what happened here?”

“Awful, ain’t it? The same happened to her husband,” the officer shook his head, “She’d been here nearly a day and a half before anyone found her, poor thing. This neighborhood is too spread apart. It’s too easy for things to go unnoticed. There must be some kind of killer in the neighborhood that held a grudge against the family. We’re opening a full investigation now. Feel free to pitch in and catch this sicko.”

Sam shook the chief officer’s hand, and then knelt beside the body. He lifted up the cloth to peer underneath it at Irene’s wound. The chief was right. It had been the same cause of death as Mr. Eastman: a hole in the chest that bled the victim out. Sam sighed and dropped the blanket to cover the body. He dragged his hand across his mouth before standing up to face Dean. Dean’s eyes were scouring the flour and window sills for sulfur, no doubt, just in case a demon was involved. However, there was nothing. The room was bare, and there wasn’t any trace of paranormal activity anywhere.

Sam took two long strides over to where Dean stood and bent down slightly to whisper in his ear. “I’ll take the kitchen. Check out the living room, then meet me back here in ten.”

“You got it, boss,” Dean murmured in a serious tone although a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Sometimes he couldn’t help but grin smugly when he made a sarcastic comment. He knew that it would make Sam sigh exasperatedly or roll his eyes, which was a victory for Dean. He loved joshing around with Sam. It helped pass the sluggish time by while they were on the road or working a job.

Dean jerked his head in the direction of the room adjacent to the hallway when the police chief’s eyes flicked confusedly to the wandering agent. The chief nodded nonchalantly and took a step outside to speak with a few of the neighbors that had clustered in the front yard. Most of them were dribbling messes over their distant neighbor’s tragic demise. Dean wondered if any of them had actually known Irene or if they were here to see the scene for themselves. People, especially in a town as small as Blanket, craved this sort of thing. This incident would be the talk of the town by tomorrow morning.

The living room showed no signs of sulfur, which Dean expected as he crossed the tile onto the carpet. His glimmering jet-black shoes sunk into the plush material, and he pulled his EMF meter discreetly from his pocket. He switched the flip causing the device to utter a low hum as it interpreted the airwaves in the room. Dean waved it around in the air while he examined the room for any other disturbances. It looked and read clear after he had passed the EMF meter over every inch of the place. When he reached the other side of the room, the space opened up to the kitchen. It was empty, so Sam must have moved onto a different room.

The kitchen was much chillier than the front hallway where the door stood ajar as the police officers came and went from the crime scene. The window over the sink was cracked open in the slightest, a cool breeze rustling the lace curtains. The sink itself was a mess: cracked mugs, spilt coffee, unwashed dishes. Dean’s nose crinkled at the putrid smell that wafted through the drain, swirling through the air by the draft coming from the window. All of a sudden, the EMF went berserk. The readings in the kitchen were incredibly high, and Dean gave the air another wave. _Yup, she was here alright_. Dean sighed and shoved the device back into his pocket. Sam was calling his name from the other room. It was time now to put the bitch to rest.

“Dean? Come on, we’ve got all we need. Thank you, chief. Good luck in your case,” Sam shook the chief officer’s hand, who nodded simply in response.

Dean followed Sam’s voice back to the front hallway. It was nearly dark outside. Dusk had settled in and the moon was beginning to sharpen against the navy blue sky. Stars were winking in and out of focus while several bats were flying out of their hiding places. The Impala glowed lightly under the rising moon, its lunar face winking against the glossy hood. Sam sunk into his seat as Dean put the car into reverse out of the driveway. Their next stop was the nearest graveyard to torch Samantha’s bones. She had done enough in this town to enough people. It was a good thing that there wasn’t anyone else she could-

“Damn it,” Dean growled, making a sharp turn off the road and swerving onto the other lane. He slammed his foot hard on the pedal back in the direction of the house, but that’s not where he was headed for. He only needed to make a pit stop to drop Sam off at a neighbor’s house.

“Dean, what the _hell_?” Sam gasped, holding tightly onto the arm rest and door handle.

“She’s got one more victim to take care of,” he explained, “Mr. Carlile. He was the last one to know about the affair and the one who got Eastman to end it, remember? So that means he’s the last on her list. And I may be wrong, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on him…agreed?”

“Agreed. Now which one of us is going to-“

“NOT IT,” Dean’s left hand flew to his nose, his index finger pressed against the tip of it. His goofy smile earned a head shake of disapproval from Sam, who turned around to grab his bag from the back seat.

“You can be really immature sometimes, you know that?” Sam sighed exasperatedly. There was a hint of a grin at the corner of his lips, but he quickly cleared his throat. “Alright, you go burn the bones. I’ll keep an eye on the vic. Call me when you’re done.”

Sam stepped out of the car just as it rolled to a stop at the end of Mr. Carlile’s driveway. He jogged to the front steps as Dean whirled away in the Impala, dust rising at the wheels while he sped towards the graveyard again. He hoped that he would make it in time before anything happened at the house or Sam. Most importantly, he hoped that Sam could keep himself together for as long as possible. Dean was expecting a visit from Cas any time now, and he had a feeling that the news wasn’t good.

* * *

 

“Mr. Carlile? Mr. Carlile!”

Sam’s knocks filled the empty night at the front door on Mr. Carlile’s porch. The curtains were drawn, most of the lights were out, and the only sound audible from the cracks alongside the house was static from the floor above. Samantha couldn’t have done much damage to anyone in the past few hours. She should be drained of her energy for at least another thirty minutes, possibly more. Sam hoped for the latter on his part. If only Mr. Carlile would open the damn door, then he wouldn’t have to worry so much.

“Mr. Carlile, open the goddamn door, Jesus fu-“

Sam was cut off mid-swear by Mr. Carlile bursting into view on the other side of the screen. He was dressed carelessly in a bathrobe and one slipper. His hair was in disarray with several spots ruffled and others smoothed down. His eyes darted from left to right as if they were searching for something in the space around Sam. When he spoke, his voice quivered slightly.

“What are you doing here, you shouldn’t be here,” he jumped a little at the sound of his own voice. Sam eyed him curiously.

“I’m here to help, Mr. Carlile. Are you alright?”

“She’s coming. I know she is. First Jon, now Irene. I’m next, I’m next…” he stuttered, shaking visibly now.

“Mr. Carlile, just calm down. If you let me in, I can help you, okay? I’ll keep her away from you until my partner takes care of her. You can trust me,” Sam held out his hands to show he wasn’t going to cause any harm, and Mr. Carlile nodded his head slowly.

He stepped out of the doorway to let Sam inside. The door closed quickly behind him, and Sam bent down to rummage inside of his bag. Once he found what he needed, he popped open the salt bag and poured a line of the substance across the bottom of the door. When he finished, he gave the bag to Carlile and instructed him to do the same in front of all the doors and windows. While the anxious professor did as he was told, Sam made his way to the kitchen where he made a circle around himself with table salt from the cupboard. Carlile returned with an empty bag, his eyes wide with fear.

“Will this keep her out?” he whispered. His hands gripped the empty bag of salt tightly, as if it were his life line.

“Yes, as long as you stay inside the circle she can’t get to you. We’ll stay in here until my partner finishes up,” Sam said calmly, reaching his palm out to Carlile.

The professor nodded sharply, hopping inside and huddling next to Sam. Sam was taken aback by the way the professor clung to him for protection. He suddenly felt like a father figure to this man he barely knew. The slight twinkling in his eyes seemed to be admiration in Sam’s book, but he wondered why this stranger admired _him_. Of all people, Sam thought he would be the one Carlile should be wary about. He was a complete stranger after all, so why all of this trust? This was the one thing that always confused Sam when it came to saving people’s lives all over the country. Why did people always see them as heroes straight away?

_Hurry up, Dean._

* * *

 

 _C’mon, baby, you have to go faster than this. Sam could be in danger if we don’t go any faster_.

Dean was almost at the cemetery now. A few more minutes and he would take a right onto the dirt path leading to the yard of bones. It had been ten minutes since he dropped Sam off at Carlile’s house. He hadn’t expected the drive to be this long, but he must have underestimated the distance. To pass the time, Dean flipped the radio on. The familiar _Renegade_ pumped through the speakers. Oddly enough, it calmed Dean’s nerves knowing that there was still something good out there in the world. He breathed in the musky smell of the Impala and brightened when he saw his exit in sight.

The Impala rolled onto the rocky dirt road and crawled to a stop before a field of headstones. Dean switched the radio off in the middle of an awesome guitar solo, but that was unimportant at the moment. He had a job to do.

The night air was chilly. Dean pulled his leather jacket a little closer to his body. The warmth wasn’t enough to fend off the sharp chill, but he carried on. With a shovel in one hand and a bucket of gasoline in the other, Dean stalked off to the headstone in the far corner of the field. It took him a while to spot it in the dark, but there it was. Samantha Jones. Dean wished that she hadn’t felt the need to come back for revenge. Then again, he wished she hadn’t gotten herself mixed in the mess in the first place. But you can’t change the past. _Nor can you forget it_ , Dean supposed.

The first few minutes of digging were aggravating because time was of the essence. After a while, he got into the motion of it and began to dig faster. Sooner or later, his shovel clunked against something hard. _Jackpot_. Dean bent down and brushed his fingers over the top of the casket. It was fresher than most. In the scheme of things, three years wasn’t too long. He was afraid of what would be inside. Dean hoped that it wasn’t too bad. He couldn’t spare losing his lunch at a time like this. He needed to be focused. However, he was focused enough on his duty that the faint buzzing in his pocket was lost to the wind…

* * *

 

“It’s okay, Mr. Carlile. Dean will be done soon,” Sam whispered, trying to force optimism into his voice. He hoped he was convincing Carlile because he sure as hell wasn’t convincing himself. What was taking Dean so long?

A fierce wind blew through the kitchen and the cupboard doors rattled against each other. Carlile shook against Sam’s side in complete terror. He held the salt bag still gripped in his hands out to ward off the energy in the room. He knew that it was Samantha come to claim her last victim, but he didn’t want to believe that such a thing could be real. Ghosts couldn’t possibly be real…or _kill people_.

“Stay calm. We’ll wait it out. She can’t get us,” Sam reassured Carlile, rubbing a hand against his shoulder.

They stayed huddled in the center of the salt ring, but the next gust of wind blew a small line through the circle. In that moment, chaos erupted. Loud laughter rang through the room and both men through their hands up to cover their ears. The entire ring of salt was blown away by the manifesting storm in the house that came out from nowhere. Carlile looked at Sam, desperate for whatever he thought Sam could do to help, but was met with a frightening sight. Samantha stood with a wide smile behind Sam, who ducked to avoid a flying dish coming from the kitchen sink. Carlile screamed and ran into the other room, leaving Sam speechless and frozen in place. He whipped his head around only to see Samantha raising another plate to bash across his face. Sam flew across the room from the blow and hit the wall, slumping to the ground and groaning from the pain.

Carlile ran to his living room and grabbed the fire poker that hung from his fire place as a weapon. It wasn’t much and would probably pass right through Samantha, but it was all he could do. He swung it aimlessly around the room to block her from getting close to him. She suddenly appeared behind him, and with an invisible power, she through him across the room with all she had. And all without raising a finger.

Carlile lifted himself off of the floor and lunged towards Samantha, swashing the fire poker straight through her side. She shrieked unexpectedly and disappeared. Carlile didn’t know that it was only momentarily, but he still giggled uncontrollably. He collapsed to his knees and his giggles turned into muffled sobs. Sam’s groans could be heard from the next room over. They had survived. _I survived_ , Carlile thought happily. He laughed again, a bit more sanely, and rose from his knees. He left out a sigh of relief and glanced around the disheveled room. Samantha had left behind quite the mess. Several chairs were upturned and a few frames were cracked. Other than that, everything was fine. _He_ was fine.

“Mr. Carlile?” Sam called out, “Mr. Carlile? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, detective! She’s gone! I got her with this fire poker and she just vanished!” Carlile rejoiced. His victorious smile stretched from ear to ear, but Sam was unimpressed. He was actually upset even more than before.

“Damn it. That only sends her off for a little while. She’ll be back any minute,” Sam cursed.

He took out his phone and tried calling Dean a fourth time. While they were in the circle mere minutes ago, he had tried to get a hold of his brother with no luck. He was met with voicemail three times before giving up completely. Hopefully by now Dean was finished at the cemetery. On the fifth ring, the other line picked up.

“Dean, thank _God_. What were you doing that kept you from answering your phone three times?” Sam demanded, his temper rising.

“ _Sorry, Sammy. I guess I didn’t hear my phone buzzing in my pocket. I’m done here, though. She’s all flames and ashes now. See you in ten._ ”

“Finally,” Sam whispered, snapping his phone shut. He looked over to where Carlile stood triumphantly. “She’s gone for good now. You, uh, I guess you got her with your iron sword…”

“Brilliant! It was exhilarating, let me tell you. First, she threw me off guard, but then I charged at her and, and-“

“Oh, I’m sure it was a great story, Mr. Carlile, uh, professor, but I need to be on my way. It was great meeting you and I hope you never come across something like this ever again,” Sam held his hand out to Carlile, who shook it dazedly. His eyebrows were furrowed with confusion as he watched Sam race like a bullet out of the kitchen and towards the front door.

“Yes, it was good meeting you, too…”


	7. And the Truth is Near While Hope is Lost

“Well, Sammy, looks like another job done with as little lives saved as possible,” Dean sighed, “I just wish we could have gotten to Irene before Samantha did.”

Sam only mumbled in response. He rested his head against the window and watched as the countryside flew past the Impala’s passenger window. They were headed back to Bobby’s for a few days to reorganize and stock up on some essentials. After Dean had picked up Sam the other night at Mr. Carlile’s house, the older brother had been distant as if he was troubled by something. Sam had no clue what it was, but he hoped it had nothing to do with him. If Dean ever figured out what Sam was up to…well, he just hoped it never came to that point.

Ruby was supposed to meet with Sam sometime in the next few days, most likely while the Winchesters were staying with Bobby. This meeting would be the last for a while. Ruby was bringing a large quantity of the substance for Sam to stash away and use over a long period. That way he wouldn’t have to keep calling her and risking the chance of being caught by Dean. Of course, he could catch Sam in the act without seeing him with Ruby, but he felt that exposing Ruby’s involvement would enrage Dean. He had never trusted the demon, nor would he ever. Sam constantly feared that Dean would jump to conclusions, which he often did, so he had to tread cautiously.

He sighed and closed his eyes to the image of the rising sun, the hum of the sleek machine lulling him to sleep. Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel rhythmically, nodding his head to the song playing only in his head. Sam chuckled softly. He let his mind drift to other thoughts and fell asleep quickly. Dean glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye to make sure that he was completely asleep. He wanted to call Cas, but he feared Sam hearing him. These days, he was beginning to trust Cas more than he did his own brother. This scared Dean to the point where he wanted Bobby to throw Sam in the panic room and keep him there until he fessed up.

The road stretched on for miles, but they were on the home stretch now. As soon as their job was done in Kentucky, the brothers had hopped straight in the Impala and sped off towards their next destination. Unless there was still unfinished business to be taken care of, they were always on their feet ready to move along.

South Dakota was mere hours away, and Dean could practically smell the stale beer that Bobby often left in his fridge. He smiled, chuckling a bit, at the old man that he saw as a father figure. _What would we do without Bobby?_ Truthfully, the boys would be lost without the man. He was their rock in most situations, binding them to Earth when their heads were other places, or stuck in the clouds. _Clouds…Cas…_ Dean’s lips formed a tight line, and he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles burned white. Castiel had found out what Sam had been so fidgety about. Simply thinking about it made Dean’s insides knot and convulse into agonizing shapes.

How could Sam do such a thing as _drink demon’s blood_? It was not only disgusting, but treacherous. It was a rule: you never trust a demon with anything. _Anything!_ And to think that after everything he and Sam have been through…Dean would have thought that his brother would be a bit more open with him. _I guess I thought wrong…_

The sun was high in the sky and the road stretched on for miles. Dean flipped the radio on and a familiar song pumped through the speakers. He smiled at the memories and punched Sam awake. His younger brother mumbled an incoherent jumble of words, but Dean heard something along the lines of “five more minutes, please?” He chuckled at the child-like innocence in Sam’s voice, wishing that it were authentic. Brushing those thoughts away, he nudged his brother until Sam finally sat up. He rubbed his eyes and glared at Dean.

“I was asleep, Dean,” he grumbled. “What’s the big deal anyway? It’s one damn song.”

“But it’s _this_ song, Sammy! This song playing at this moment in this car on this day in this year and so on… We have to appreciate the little things every once in a while,” Dean smiled, choking back the tears that stung his eyes like beach sand would. Sam shook his head, but murmured the lyrics along with the song.

“That’s more like it!” Dean turned up the volume and belted out the tune as loud as he could.

Sam’s eyes brightened and he laughed. He _genuinely_ laughed. For a moment, everything was alright. For a moment, everything was normal. Sam wasn’t drinking demon blood, Cas wasn’t spying on Sam, and Dean hadn’t been to Hell. The world was alright and good and pie was waiting for Dean at Bobby’s. He could almost smell it. Dean closed his eyes and sighed as the final chords faded into silence. The song was over. Reality washed over Dean like a ten-foot wave on the ocean. The tears were back, but Dean refused to shed a single one. He couldn’t cry in front of Sammy. Just like when he was younger, Dean had to be strong for his little brother. There was no other choice. It was either repress his emotions, or risk Sammy being worried about Dean when there was no need to be.

With that thought simmering in his mind, Dean changed the station until another good tune emitted throughout the car. He nodded his head to the beat, watching Sam from the corner of his eye. Sam was staring out the window, lost in thought, and Dean thought he could see something flicker in his dilated pupils. Whatever it was, it was dark. Dark and hollow, something Dean never wanted to see again.

“C’mon Sammy, get your head out of the clouds. Today’s a day for celebration! We got another bad guy and pie awaits us at Bobby’s. That’s got to be _something_ to smile about!” Dean grinned.

Sam flashed a quick smile in response, but returned to gazing out of the glass pane. Dean’s smile faltered, but he didn’t let it fade. He only rolled down his window and let the cool air roll over his skin. He let it be like that for a while, desperately trying to grip that fleeting sense of hope he had before. But he knew he wouldn’t have it again.


End file.
